


Try

by rubygirl29



Series: The Boxer Series [6]
Category: The Avengers (2012)
Genre: Action/Adventure, Hurt/Comfort, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-11-16
Updated: 2012-11-16
Packaged: 2017-11-18 18:37:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,815
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/564165
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rubygirl29/pseuds/rubygirl29
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Summary: Clint never expected to return to Afghanistan, but when Nick Fury says there is a problem and sends Phil into dangerous territory, Clint has no choice but to go with him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Try

**Author's Note:**

> Author's Note: Part 5 of The Boxer series. Set concurrent with Iron Man and immediately following I Ache For You.
> 
> The lyrics and music belong to Pink. The Characters belong to Marvel. I own only my words.

_Funny how the heart can be deceiving_  
More than just a couple times  
Why do we fall in love so easy  
Even when it's not right 

_Where there is desire There is gonna be a flame_  
Where there is a flame Someone's bound to get burned  
But just because it burns Doesn't mean you're gonna die  
You've gotta get up and try.  
Gotta get up and try. You gotta get up and try. 

 

Phil wakes the next morning with Clint wrapped around him; all heat and hard muscles and soft, steady breath against the back of his neck. It feels amazing. For the first time in ages -- really longer than he can recall -- Phil is tempted to snuggle deeper into the curve of Clint's body and go back to sleep. Then his cell phone chimes, and a moment later, Clint's blasts out with _Shoot to Thrill_. 

Clint bolts upright, blinking owlishly in the morning light. The sheets slide down his body, exposing taut abs and smooth skin. It's enough to distract Phil, but the phone is demanding an answer and he flips it up. There is a text from Fury, a code rarely used and urgent. Clint is reading the same message. "Fury?"

Phil tosses Clint's clothes at him on the way to his closet. "We'll grab coffee on the way." As he brushes past Clint, however, he pauses and turns him, placing a sweet kiss on his mouth. Clint's eyes widen in surprise and he ... God, the man blushes ... Phil wonders what kind of relationships Clint has had to put that look of shock in his eyes, and then isn't sure he wants to know. 

Clint gets with the program quickly, returning the kiss as they stumble towards the bathroom, the shower, and toothpaste. They shower together, to save time and water, but aside from kisses that taste like water and mint, that is all the contact they have time to risk. Coffee will have to come from the S.H.I.E.L.D. cafeteria. Clint shrugs. "It's got caffeine, and it's hot." Phil has higher standards, but the clock is ticking and he can practically _feel_ Fury pacing in his office. 

Clint stops by the armory while Phil goes up to the Director's office. 

Fury, predictably, is pacing. "You took your time," he growls. "Where's Barton?"

Phil wonders if Fury knows that he and Clint were together. He decides that being semi-honest will work the best. "I saw him going to the armory," which isn't a lie. "He'll be here."

"We have a problem." Nick Fury's baritone rumble is slightly lower and slightly raspier than usual, which means that Phil had a problem, too. _Well, fuck_ , Phil sighs inwardly. 

The door opens and Clint strolls in, stripping off his shooting glove. "Sir. Agent Coulson." He nods briefly.

"Director Fury believes we have a problem." 

"I don't believe we have a problem, Agent Coulson. I know we do," Fury says icily. He points a remote towards a large monitor. The image of a dark-haired man wearing a suit even more impeccably tailored than Coulson's Dolce, comes up behind a news anchor. He looks vaguely familiar. 

_"Tony Stark, billionaire weapons manufacturer, is believed to have been captured by the Taliban during an IED attack on his convoy in Southern Afghanistan. No claims of responsibility have been broadcast as yet, but the State Department is expecting a ransom will be demanded."_

Fury fixes his one eye on Coulson. "Those idiots in the DoD have been sitting on this for three months before realizing they need more specialized help. You and Barton pack up. You're going to Afghanistan."

Clint pales, and while he doubts Fury notices, Phil is watching him with concern. 

"Yes, sir," Phil replies quietly. "When do we leave?"

"There is a chopper waiting to take you to McGuire AFB. You'll catch a military transport from there to Bagram, where you will assist the Air Force in the search and rescue for Stark." Fury hands Phil a briefing book and gives them a curt nod of dismissal. 

^*^*^*^*^*^  
A fourteen hour flight on a military transport is a long time given the discomfort and the eyes of the soldiers flying with them. Some are vets. Clint can tell that from the thousand yard stares in their eyes. Some are new, some cocky and some haunted and all with doubts written in their faces and their bodies. 

Clint was there once. Now, he isn't sure where he falls on that scale. He glances at Phil, sitting next to him. Other than the camouflage fatigues he's wearing, he still looks like a mid-level CPA, horn-rimmed glasses poised on the bridge of his nose and a tablet computer in his hands. His knee nudges against Clint's, which is comforting and unsettling at the same time. 

Clint's rifle and bow are in special cases beneath his seat. He has an e-reader loaded with Lee Child's books -- he has to root for the loner hero and appreciates Child's stripped down prose and dialog -- but he's not reading. His head is tilted back against the metal seat and his eyes are closed. He's fighting another headache. 

Phil touches him lightly on the arm. "Do you need some meds?"

He shakes his head. "No. Can't afford to be fuzzy-minded." He opens his eyes. "Got some of those migraine pills?"

"You know you shouldn't leave home without them," Phil smiles. "I don't." He shakes out a dose into Clint's palm and hands him a bottle of water. 

"Thanks." Clint takes the pills and closes his eyes. He's asleep in five minutes, his head lolling against Phil's shoulder while the Marines smirk at them. One of Phil's chilling stares, perfected by this time in the Rangers, makes them look away uneasily. Phil resumes his reading, conscious of the weight of Clint's head on his shoulder and the faint brush of his breath against Phil's neck. 

^*^*^*^*^*^*^

Clint stands in the heat of the sun reflecting sharply off the tarmac. Everything is dun-colored; the tents, the dirt, the distant landscapes bleeding away into the mountains. He should have remembered, and he shivers. 

"Do we need to talk about this?" Phil asks.

"No." Clint bites off the word and and gathers up his weapons and gear. Phil has has sidearm and his Toughbook in a Halliburton case. He honestly doesn't know why he's here; it's not like he's been in military combat recently, and that's what this is looking likely to become. However, he's used to the arcane maze of Nick Fury's mind, so he follows Clint as he lopes across the open ground of the airfield. 

They spend the next three hours in a stifling Quonset hut watching satellite recordings of the attack on Stark's convoy. Clint is leaning forward, memorizing angles and trajectories and calculating distances in his mind. He might not have a formal education, but like every sniper, he knows statistics and standard deviation. He figures on paper; tiny thin sheets that he can tuck into his pocket if he has to consult them. Clint, with his near eidetic memory doesn't need to do that, but it gives him something to keep his fingers occupied.

Phil is watching him closely. He can _see_ the Clint Barton he knows slipping away as he becomes the soldier he was before they met, before he was an unemployed vet working for the wrong kind of people, before he fell in with Natasha and dropped unexpectedly into Phil's life. Before they slept together, and God, was that only the night before last? 

An Air Force colonel, James Rhodes, who seems to be the one friend Stark has judging from the look on the base commander's face, watches the footage as intently as Clint. "What are you looking for?" he asks.

"The first distraction was an IED, the second strike was from a SAM. If my math is right, and if you overlay a map of the area where I think it was launched from, I'm guessing they took Stark to the caves at Tora Bora. In which case, good luck, man. I've been there. If Bin Laden can hide out in those caves and not be found, so can Stark's captors." Clint frowns. "You want to tell me again why it took three months to call in help?"

"This." The base commander pushes another button on the remote. The view switches to a grainy recording of masked Taliban fighters and a kneeling Tony Stark. He looks sick, damaged. 

"What the fuck is that?" Rhodes asks, pointing to what look like wires attached to a car battery. They run up under Stark's ragged shirt. "Torture? Are those sick bastards _torturing_ him?"  
Clearly, this is something Rhodes hasn't seen. Transparency isn't the military's middle name. 

Clint is tired of subterfuge. He empathizes with Stark, which surprises him. It's not like they have a damn thing in common. "You think the Geneva Convention applies here?" He gives a derisive snort. "I've been there, done that whole electroshock thing. I can tell you that they'll do anything to achieve their goals." 

Phil leans closer to the screen. He tilts his head. "No. I don't think that's meant to torture Stark. It could be some kind of rude pacemaker." 

"Oh, God," Rhodes sighs. "Tony, what the fuck have you gotten yourself into this time?"

The base commander sighs and looks like a man who wonders how he managed to get so lucky. "We'll start an aerial sweep of the caves. The drones might be able to use sonar to check the depth of the most likely areas. We should be able to eliminate some of the shallower caves. Infrared could pick up heat signatures if they're not too deeply embedded."

"You haven't done that, yet?" Phil asks. 

"Not with the newest equipment Stark Industries supplied us with. I imagine there is some pressure to get Stark back in one piece if it's not too late. 

"So we stand down until then?" Clint asks. He's fidgeting, folding bits of paper into tiny airplanes. Phil can see the shadows under his eyes. 

"We can begin aerial surveillance. We'll have the drones in the air within an hour. Agents Coulson, Barton, my adjutant will show you to your quarters and the mess. Welcome to Bagram." 

Clint leans forward, looking resolute and grim."Sir, I may be the only guy here who's actually been inside the caves." He pauses, swallows and says quietly. "If you drop me in, I can take a quick look for Stark. If he's there, I'll call in your guys."

Phil is about to leap out of his chair and give Clint a good shake for offering to do something so bone-headed, but the Base Commander is looking at Clint thoughtfully, weighing risks and benefits. He's being more objective than Phil can ever be now; he's not the one wearing his heart on a noose. 

"You've been there before?"

"My first tour was right after 9/11."

"Army?"

"Spec Ops, sir." 

The base commander looks at Colonel Rhodes. "Well?"

"One man going in minimizes the risk to Stark."

"What about the risk to Agent Barton?" Phil asks, and Clint shoots him a warning "stay of of my business" look. 

"I volunteered," Clint says quietly. "I can do this." 

The meeting breaks up and Phil and Clint follow the adjutant to their quarters in the main compound. Fury must have pulled some strings because they are shown to a small but private room, not the barracks. Phil wonders how they rate that concession. It's usually reserved for VIPs. He closes the door and leans against it.

"What are you doing?" he asks. "You're not military any more. You're a S.H.I.E.L.D. agent, too valuable to waste your life."

Clint pauses in the midst of sorting through his gear. "How valuable is Stark? Compared to him I'm a bargain basement hit man. The man's a fucking _genius_ , you heard Fury."

Phil doesn't have an answer for that, and Clint continues, "I've been in those caves. I'm probably the only man on this mission who has been. I figured that's why Fury wanted me along. If all the army wanted was a sniper, they would have called in one of their own."

True, but none who have Clint's skill set and natural abilities. When they get back to S.H.I.E.L.D. Phil's going to have a talk with Fury about the proper use of his agents. Taking point for the military isn't one of them in Phil's book. Beyond that, it's _Clint_. Phil looks at him, sees something he doesn't like. Something that makes his stomach knot up. He crosses the room and slides his arms around Clint's waist. "What's really going on here? Talk to me."

Clint shakes his head. "It was a long time ago. I spent some time as the guest of Raza al Talibani. I think I saw him in the video. If he has Stark, we've got trouble."

Phil sees beyond the nonchalance, the reticence. "How many scars did he leave you with?"

Clint's eyes focus at a point beyond Phil's shoulder, as if he's ashamed of what was done to him. "Some new teeth, a concussion, I have a problem with my left ear -- but you knew that."

That's why Clint sits to Phil's left most of the time. Why he's plagued with migraines and aches when it rains. Why he has this thing about deserts and the need to be in high places. Phil cradles Clint's jaw between his hands, his thumbs stroking gently across Clint's stubbled cheeks. "I'm sorry."

"I was a soldier." Clint turns to Coulson's hand and kisses his palm. 

"Was. Now, you're mine," Phil says, and he doesn't mean S.H.I.E.L.D.'s. 

Clint's cheeks color. "I am," he says softly, turning his face to kiss Phil's palm. "This is just a look-see. Nothing to worry about."

"I'm not convinced," Phil says. "I'll be whispering in your ear every step of the way."

Clint smiles. "I kind of like the sound of that."

^*^*^*^*^*^*^

The caves are folded into the mountains, entries and exits nearly invisible from the air. Some are no more than slits wide enough for a slim man to enter. Clint isn't claustrophobic, but even he felt the weight of the mountains on his chest when he was in the caves. He rubs his sternum which aches with repressed memories. After he was rescued -- he likes to think that he broke out and happened to get lucky enough to be picked up by a Force Recon unit -- they put him through a myriad of psychological evaluations and debriefings. He passed, but there is that _box_ in his mind, locked tight with all those things he can never tell. 

"I think the rockets were fired from that cluster of caves." He points them out to the navigator. "Can you drop me in that rift?"

"You know HALO?"

"Yeah. This ain't my first rodeo." He's done plenty of drops in Afghanistan, and heights don't scare him. Landing scares him. But he's trained and ready. He fits on his helmet, shoulders his chute. 

_"You know I still think you're an idiot,"_ Phil's voice whispers in ear. 

Clint grins. "Yes, sir." But hearing Phil makes warmth curl in his chest. "I'll be back before you know I'm gone."

"I doubt that."

There's really no response to that. Clint adjusts his harness. The chopper door slides open and the wind rushes in. Clint gives the co-pilot a thumbs-up and drops into the night. He lands with a jolt on rocky ground. Fuck, he forgot how much that hurts, but he's fine; no broken bones, and his clothing protected his body from abrasions. He bundles up the chute stuffs it into the pack. He looks around. The stars arc overhead and the moon is about to rise over the boulders. Clint starts climbing. The full moon is both a blessing and a curse. It lights his way, but it will also make his night vision less acute. It will also make him easier to spot -- which really isn't on his agenda. 

He reaches the top of the rise and settles in behind a cluster of boulders. He has a good view of the caves that look like the ones in the background of the video. Clint peers through the scope. He can't see any sign of movement, but he does see several large clumps of what most people would dismiss as rock formations, but that look too symmetrical to Clint, and definitely covered by camouflage netting. You can hide a lot, but you can't hide everything from a well-trained eye, and Clint's are very well trained, indeed. 

They look like ammo and supply dumps, and he isn't sure, but one looks suspiciously like a rocket launcher. It could be any one of a hundred caves where they might be holding Stark, but Clint is thinking the odds are more and more in his favor, particularly when three men come out of the cave. They are lighting up ... cigars? Clint focuses his rifle scope to adjust the clarity. Definitely cigars. Cuban. There are three options here. Either Russia is in the game, or they belong to Stark. The third, most alarming one, is that Stark's captors aren't Taliban, they are Ten Rings ... mercenaries from several nations with an agenda that has nothing to do with religion and everything to do with destabilizing the entire Middle East. 

So, Raza has new partners in his bed, Clint thinks. He taps his throat mike. "Coulson, the good news is I think this is the place. The bad news is that Raza in now allied with Ten Rings."

He hears Phil breathe. "How's your situation?"

"I'm good. I'll just hunker here for the night. Keep my eyes open. I don't know how the fuck we're going to get Stark out of here. Judging from the supply dumps, it looks like Raza's got a small army garrisoned here."

"Stay safe. Report any action. Get to the extraction zone.We'll pick you up at dawn."

"Aw, I was hoping I could get in a little target practice ... cause some havoc with those nifty exploding arrows R&D provided. I know you think they're hot."

Coulson's soft breath turns to equally soft laughter. "Make it count as a distraction.Then get the Hell out of there."

"Yes, sir." 

The night is starting to get cold. Clint takes the thermal blanket from his kit and wraps it around his shoulders, making himself small and invisible. It won't be light enough to shoot without NVGs for two hours, and he can wait it out. He closes his eyes and drifts into his zone, quieting his thoughts and relaxing his body while staying alert to every sound and shift of wind. 

^*^*^*^*^*^*^  
The first light is like an alarm to Clint. He rouses himself, pokes his nose out from beneath the thermal blanket and curses the early morning chill. All is quiet around the cave. He takes the starlight scope off his rifle and replaces it with his Leupold. He squints through it. No sign of movement, not even a morning fire stirred to life. Clint cautiously turns on his side and relieves himself, the sand soaking up his piss like a thirsty sponge. He munches on a power bar, sips down some water and settles in to wait for sunrise. 

It comes slowly, rimming the mountains and sliding into the rifts like molten gold. There is a stir of movement at the front of the cave as three men come out, yawning and stretching. Clint can hear them speak in staccato Pashto. They kneel to pray and then all hell breaks loose. Gunfire first, then men running from the cave shouting pointing, grabbing up rifles. Clint decides this is a good time for a distraction. He takes up his bow, nocks one of his exploding arrows and aims at the far fuel dump. _Three, two, one ..._ A great gout of flame erupts, bits of metal canisters, flaming netting, ash and heat. Men run screaming from the fire and heat. Clint dives behind a boulder and taps his mike. "Action at the cave. Suggest you get here ASAP. Forget the extraction--" He's about to head for a better location when an explosion slams him to the ground. Dazed, he lifts up his head and sees ... 

The ground is rocked by a second explosion; bits of metal, rocks and debris form a deadly storm of shrapnel that catches Clint and cuts him down. His last conscious thought is that he could swear he saw a vaguely man-shaped missile launch from the cave and into the sky like a meteor in daylight. 

^*^*^*^*^*^*^  
"Barton? Barton!" Coulson sounds calmer than he feels. Right now, his heartbeat has ratcheted up so hard that he checks to see if the front of his shirt is physically trembling. It isn't. His hands aren't steady. His voice is steady. He looks at the radio man who shakes his head. 

"I don't know, sir. It might just be the earpiece malfunctioning."

That would be the best case scenario, and Phil doesn't believe in them. Not where Clint is concerned. "We need to get out there," he says, looking at Colonel Rhodes. 

"You got it," Rhodes says and is heading out. "You coming, Coulson?"

He doesn't have to ask Phil twice. He grabs the com equipment and follows Rhodes out onto the tarmac and the waiting choppers. "What's plan B?" he asks Rhodes.

"Pray that Barton and Tony are alive. If not, I guess we Jericho those suckers." 

That's a plan Phil endorses whole-heartedly. He prays that Clint is alive and that his earpiece fell out, or ran out of power. He hopes Stark is alive. He thinks of all the things he should have said to Clint the last night they were together. He's never been a man to harbor regrets, but this, he does. He buckles up and the bottom drops out of his stomach as the chopper rises from the ground to the air and heads out to Clint's last known location. 

The distances are deceptive. The mountains look close to Bagram from the ground. They look like they're rising from the flat desert floor like they were thrust up by Atlas. From the air, despite the speed of the choppers, it seems to take forever to reach the foothills. What looked like flat ground is rocky, boulder-strewn rifts. There doesn't seem to be a flat area large enough to land a chopper. 

He holds a pair of binoculars to his eyes and skims them along the horizon. "We must be close."

"We are. Look." Rhodes points to what looks like a smudge against the darker rocks. "Smoke. I sure hope your man took out any ammo and missile launchers, because otherwise, it's gonna be a bumpy ride."

"If he said he was going to do it, it's done," Phil promises grimly. _If he's alive ..._ He can't think otherwise. 

The chopper swoops down, raising dust devils of sand. Phil keeps focusing the binoculars on the caves, searching for any sign of Clint. He sees debris, ashes, tiny figures running about. He counts ten. Not exactly a garrison, but there are bodies ... more than Clint could have brought down single-handed even with six explosive arrows. 

"Drop me down there," he tells Rhodes. "I can't see worth a damn from up here."

"Are you crazy? There are still guys with guns down there."

"Strafe the area. Get them inside the caves and drop me." Phil's voice is steel. "I know what I'm asking, and trust me, I'm not a helpless bureaucrat." 

"I don't like it."

"Listen, Colonel. You won't be able to set this bird down. Look for Stark. Radio for transport to pick me up. I'll radio the coordinates."

"And if you can't make it?"

"Then I can't make it. I've survived worse than this, and I won't leave my man behind."

"I thought the saying was _Leave no man behind._ Rhodes looks at him speculatively. 

What can he say? Not that it matters. The noose tightens around his heart. "There ... drop me on those dunes. At least the landing will be softer."

Phil puts on a helmet even though he'll be lowered on a rope and not using a chute. He readies himself, strapping into the harness and is winched down, buffeted by the wash from the chopper blades. He releases the catch and drops the last few feet to the ground, gives Rhodes the thumbs-up and checks his mike. "Thanks for the ride, Colonel."

"Good luck, sir."

It's the first time Rhodes has called him that. Phil watches the chopper take off. In his pack, he has a first aid kit, a spare harness, water and food. He takes off the helmet and puts on a camouflage cap. Then he takes out a small, electronic tablet and switches it on. He plugs in the earpiece and listens for the _ping_. He feels completely justified in keeping the locator chip implanted in Barton's abdomen a secret from Rhodes and the military. 

He waits for the display to come up and heads towards the coordinates. It's no guarantee that Clint is alive, but to Phil it is as reassuring as a heartbeat. He is out there, and Phil will find him and bring him home safely. 

^*^*^*^*^*^*^*

There is heat and thirst and pain. Clint groans and tries to move, getting a mouthful of grit for his effort. He can't think, everything is muddled in his mind. He vaguely recalls shooting arrows, and explosions. He remembers being flung to the ground and crawling ... He has no idea how far or where or why. He only remembers that it hurt, and still does. His hands are bloody, scraped and scored. He doesn't know how they got that way. There is a clammy warmth on his leg. He forces himself up on his elbows and looks. His desert camouflage trousers are bloody. A piece of metal is impaled in his thigh. He thinks he should pull it out, then recalls learning that's not such a great idea. He doesn't really want to pull it out. He touches his abdomen, hoping that his locator chip is intact. He never doubts that Coulson will find him. Clint would go to the ends of the earth and bleed out every drop of his blood to save Coulson. _Phil,_ he thinks. And that much gives him comfort. He pulls a bandanna out of his pocket and turns, grimacing at the pain in his leg. He covers his face and neck to shade it from the brutal sun and then the darkness at the edge of his vision narrows down until there's nothing left. 

^*^*^*^*^*^*^  
Phil follows the black smoke still staining the sky. He looks down on a scene of utter chaos; burning fuel tanks, exploded munitions, burning bodies, scorched sand and stones. Parts of the cave look like they've collapsed. There are a few men moving around dazedly through the devastation. Phil has no sympathy for them. He does wonder, though, if Tony Stark is one of the dead men, if he is still in the cave. Somehow, given the level of destruction, he doubts it. Stark could certainly engineer it, however. 

Stark, however, is Rhodes' problem. He opens a channel on his com. "Colonel, I'd start looking for Stark. I don't think he's still being held captive."

"Roger that. Have you found your man?"

"Not yet. I'm heading east. I'll be in touch."

He moves cautiously around the perimeter, but nobody is watching him. He could stage a parade and they'd still be too shocked to pay attention to him. He finally finds what he's looking for -- a hollow in the sand, displaced pebbles ... and blood. Not fresh and nearly dry. This isn't what he had hoped to see. 

He checks the coordinates on the GPS and works his way towards the horizon; still following the signal and the betraying trail of blood. He can feel his heart beating. He pauses in the shade of an overhang and sips some water, conserving it while acknowledging that his body needs it to function efficiently. It's been years since his service in-country, but he finds himself returning to his roots as a Ranger. It's all familiar; the heat, the weight of his pack thumping against his back, the weight of his pistol firm on his thigh. 

He scans the horizon. There is a darkness at the edge. Phil has seen that before and he curses. He taps his mike. "Rhodes, it looks like a sandstorm is coming up."

The radio crackles with static. "See it. Step it up, Coulson. You've got about 25 minutes before it hits."

"Find Stark. Let me worry about Barton." Coulson signs off and using both the evidence of his eyes and the GPS sets out to find Clint. The blood on the sand is redder, moister. Barton is bleeding heavily, but he can't be far. Phil pauses and studies the landscape. There is a flutter of movement where there should be none, and what looks like a pile of small stones. He's found Clint. He can only pray he's not too late.

Clint is still, his face covered by a dusty bandanna. There is a dark stain on his thigh, the wound still leaking blood and a wicked-looking shard of metal impaled in the muscle. Phil kneels by him and moves the bandanna aside, Clint's cheeks are sunburned, but that is the only color on his skin. The hollows of his eyes are dark, his lips are blistered and pale. Phil opens an eyelid and the membranes are an unhealthy white. He's lost so much blood ... 

Phil holds the glass screen of the GPS close to his parted lips. A slight sheen of moisture gathers on the glass. He's alive, breathing, but his pulse is weak and thready. Phil's brain clicks into gear. He knows how to do this. First, he has to get the shrapnel out of Clint's leg so he can be moved. He gets a Quick-clot pressure bandage out of his medical pack, cuts through the thick cloth of Clint's uniform, sprays the area with a numbing disinfectant spray and prays that the metal isn't jagged or too close to one of the big veins and arteries in the leg. _God, let this be right,_ he prays and slowly and steadily pulls the shard free. Even unconscious, Clint cries out and Phil presses his palm against Clint's lips. 

"Barton, you need to be still," he says and some part of Clint's mind obeys. He doesn't move even though tears gather in the corner of his eyes and streak through the dust and blood on his face. Phil slides the shard out. Blood wells, but doesn't spurt, which has to be a good sign. He wraps the wound firmly in the pressure bandage. He raises Clint upright and holds a canteen to Clint's lips. The tip of his tongue runs over the moisture. Phil does it again, and again until he knows that he can't wait longer to move Clint. The storm is now a dun-colored cloud drawing closer by the minute. He can't call in the chopper. 

He goes through Clint's pack and finds his scope. Scanning the boulders, he sees a dark fissure, possibly a shallow cave. If not, it still would provide better shelter than trying to huddle at the base of the boulder where they are now. 

"Clint? Barton, come on. I need you to wake up." He taps his cheek lightly, then harder. "I need you with me. Open your eyes." Another brisk tap, and Clint moves his head, turning from the sharp contact. "Wake up. I can't carry you."

Clint eyelids flutter open. "Hey." He winces. "Knew you'd come."

"We have to move. There's a sandstorm coming in. I think I found someplace to ride it out, but I can't carry you."

"My leg ..."

"Temporary fix." Phil grins. "Thank me later."

"Right." Clint forces himself upright. Phil wraps his arm around Clint's shoulder and raises him to his feet. What little color had returned to Clint's lips fades and Phil can feel every muscle in his body tighten up. 

"Take a breath. I've got you." 

"Okay, I'm okay." He's shuddering against Phil, but they have to move. With Clint leaning heavily on him, and Phil holding him up, they make an weaving path towards the rocks. It isn't far, but if feels like a ten-mile hike. 

If disaster can have a lucky turn, then they've taken it. The fissure is actually a cave. Clint staggers and Phil lays him down. He pulls a flashlight out of his pack. The light allows him to check the bandage on Clint's leg. He's bleeding again. Phil has one more Quick-clot bandage left. He unwinds the old one and wraps Clint's leg again. When he takes out an ampule of morphine, Clint shoves it aside. "No drugs. I can't go through that again. Promise me you won't ... " He swallows painfully. 

Phil doesn't question him. He puts the morphine away. "I promise." The light is fading rapidly. "How long do these storms last?"

"As long as they want." Clint grins faintly. "Depends on how fast they're moving. This one, probably three to six hours. "Think I'll hold on until then?"

Coulson pauses, fists his hands in Clint's fatigue shirt and pulls him close. "If I have to drain my own blood, you'll make it."

"Didn't think you were my type," Clint slurs, his eyes on Coulson's. The faint spark of humor at his pun quirks his lips. 

"I'm everybody's type," Phil smiles. "Universal donor. And you _are_ my type, so I'm not letting you die on me. Got that?"

"Mmm." Clint's eyes close and Phil kisses his lips gently. "Drink some water and then you can sleep." He opens a packet of Tylenol. "These okay?" Clint looks at the packet and nods. Phil breaks the caplets in half and gives them to Clint. He holds him up and strokes his throat, encouraging him to swallow them down with water. Clint chokes slightly on the pills, but they stay down. Phil slides behind him, cradling him against his chest. "I'll wake you when it's time to go."

Clint's brow furrows. "Did you see him?"

"Who?"

"The iron man. Like a missile," he murmurs. "Saw the iron man fly."

"No." He moves his fingers gently through Clint's hair, checking for any injuries that might have caused a concussion. "That's all right. Just rest. You need rest."

Clint sighs and his body goes lax. Phil listens to the wind gathering force, making little dust devils swirl around the entrance. He feels the wind brushing his cheek and fine grains of sand filtering around his boots. He pulls Clint's bandanna out of his pocket and folds it into a triangle. 

Clint's reactions to having his nose and mouth covered are reflexive. If he hadn't been half-conscious and weak, they could have been lethal. Phil fights him, finally has him flat on his back with his forearm pressing on Clint's chest. His heartbeat is thudding against Phil's arm, his body is tense and shaking. "Clint!" Phil hates this, hates that Clint perceives him as an enemy, hates that something or somebody in his past has forced him to this point. "Clint, you have to listen to me. Clint, it's all right."

"Phil?" Clint's chest is heaving. He coughs and swears. "What the fuck are you doing?"

"Sand storm, remember? I don't think having a lungful of the desert in you is going to help. I have to tie this over your nose and mouth."

Clint sits up. "Give it to me. I'll do it." Phil hands him the bandanna and Clint ties it on. "Sorry."

"For what? I should have done it before you fell asleep."

"You didn't know." Clint shakes his head. "I'm okay. Just ... just let me sleep. Do we have more water?"

The canteen is light, but Phil thinks there is enough to keep them going through the storm. Hopefully, after that, it won't matter. "Drink what you need."

Clint sips and closes his eyes. He should have had more, Phil thinks. But Clint's head is tucked beneath his chin, and his breathing is slow and steady. His pulse is stronger. Phil is willing to settle for small victories in this fight. He carefully pulls Clint's bandanna more securely over his nose and mouth, then does the same for his own. The wind is buffeting the rocks and minute particles of sand are filling in the crevices of rock and wiping away signs of their footprints. He hopes it's more of a blessing than a curse, hiding them from any pursuers.

The flashlight will last for hours, but Phil can't risk anything more than the dimmest illumination. The storm isn't abating. Phil wraps his arms around Clint. His body is warm, which is both comforting and alarming. He hopes Barton isn't starting a fever. He can't fight blood loss, infection, dehydration, and the Taliban. In general, this whole situation sucks -- that's Clint's word. Phil just says that the situation is untenable. Unbearable. 

He allows himself the luxury of placing a kiss on Clint's hair. Clint nestles against Phil with a sigh. Phil stills until he settles again, before cautiously wrapping his arms around Clint. He takes out an e-reader from his pack. He's about to fall asleep when Clint moves. Phil smooths his sweaty hair from his forehead.

"What is it?" Barton's temperature is definitely higher than it had been an hour ago. 

"I'm not feeling so good, Phil."

"You have a fever," Phil says softly. "Here, you need to drink water."

"This is all we have?"

"Until the storm is over and I can get hold of our rescue team. They know we're out here." 

"My tracker is still working?"

"Yes, of course."

"You sound pretty confident about that."

"I found you, didn't I? Now, drink."

"Is it cold in here?" Clint sounds very young and vulnerable as he's hit with a chill. "I'm cold." His teeth begin chattering.

"I have an MRE." Phil digs through his pack. "Chicken soup?"

"Sounds good." He shudders again.

"Okay, I'm going to move." He hates to release Clint, worried about jostling his leg. He thumps his pack into a slightly more pillow-like shape to support Clint's head. He slides carefully from behind Clint, trying not to hear the small, pained sound he makes in his throat. 

The MRE comes with a chemical hot pack. Phil breaks it and waits for the broth to warm. There is hot tea, crackers and peanut butter. Phil gently checks the temperature of the broth, then braces Clint against his shoulder. 

Clint gives him an irritated look. "It's my leg, not my arm. I can feed myself."

"Really?" He hands Clint the spoon and watches it shake. "In the interest of efficiency, maybe you should re-think that." 

Clint sighs and hands Phil the spoon. "You win."

"Were we fighting?"

"Maybe a little," Clint leans back against him and sips the broth Phil spoons carefully from the MRE pack. About half of the broth his gone when Clint pushes the spoon away. "That's it," he says. "Sorry."

"No, you did great." He pauses, listens to the wind. "I think the storm is dying down. I should be able to call in a chopper in a couple of hours."

"Good. This is getting old." He settles against Phil's chest and closes his eyes. He's still too warm, but no longer shivering.

Phil waits in the darkness, finally allowing himself to doze off. He is awakened by silence. Clint has slipped down and is curled over Phil's lap. His skin is hot and dry and his breathing sounds rough. There is light showing at the cave entrance. Phil slides out from under Clint's body, hushing him when he murmurs a protest and curls even more tightly into a ball. The pressure bandage is showing red at the edges. He's still bleeding, but it has slowed considerably. His eyes are red-rimmed and sunk deep in his sockets. 

Phil stands up, his muscles cramping from the cold and Clint's weight. He slowly stretches and shuffles over to the fissure. Outside, the sky is clear, the sun just over the mountains. Phil checks his radio and gets a signal. He taps in his code and waits. The earpiece crackles to life. "That you, Coulson?"

"Yes, Colonel. I have Barton. He needs medical care. I'm fine. Did you get Stark?" 

"Safe and semi-sound. I've got your coordinates. The choppers will be there in thirty."

"Sooner, if possible."

"We'll do our best, sir."

Phil tries dribbling what's left of the water through Clint's lips. He hasn't roused, just curled even closer around his middle. He looks gaunt, like he's burning away to ash and bone. Phil tries not to panic, but he's lost agents, good soldier, to less than this. _You are not going to die on me, Barton._ The words are fierce, angry. Clint can't hear them. Phil gathers up the bandages and the remains of their meal, not leaving anything behind for the enemy. He doesn't suppose it matters, but neither does he want to take the chance with DNA. Barton is too valuable an asset to risk leaving a genetic footprint for the enemy to follow. 

He hates to leave Clint, but he'd rather not move him and risk opening the wound. He stands outside, listening for the sound of the choppers. He hears them in his chest before they rise over the horizon: a big Pave Hawk chopper that looks like a mechanized dragonfly. Phil has never been more relieved in his life. 

A stretcher and two medics are lowered from the bay. Coulson points to the cave. "In there. He's in rough shape; deep leg wound that's still bleeding, and he's running a fever."

"Don't worry, sir. We'll take care of him. Get yourself up here. We've got Taliban anti-aircraft in the area."

Coulson recognizes the gravity of the military situation. He watches as the crew hauls the stretcher on board. As soon as it is secured, Phil clips on the harness and gives the thumbs up to be winched up to the bay. The medics have started IV hydration for Clint. They look like they want to stick a needle in Phil's arm, but he waves them off in favor of a bottle of cold water. He sits next to Clint as the medics cut away the pressure bandage. Blood leaks from the wound. It's angry and red and ugly. Clint utters a harsh cry and tries to move away from the pain. Phil strokes his arm, soothing him to stillness. 

The medic wrapped the wound in gauze and tape. "The docs'll do a better job of cleaning and stitching the wound," he explains. "You did a good job with field dressing."

"I've had practice." 

"We'll be landing soon," the medic says. "Welcome back to Bagram."

"It's good to be back -- and that's something I never thought I'd say." 

They land and they carry Clint off the chopper as the dust settles around Phil's legs. He suddenly realizes that he's physically and mentally exhausted. He has been so focused on Clint that he pushed his own fatigue aside. It's catching up with him. He staggers and rights himself just as Colonel Rhodes grabs his arm. 

"Hey, Coulson. Are you okay?"

"It was a long night," Phil admits. "You found Stark?"

"Yeah, thanks for your help."

"It was Barton."

"Is he all right?"

"No, but he's a survivor."

Rhodes' hand tightens on his shoulder. "He's going to be with the doctors for a while. You should get some real food and sleep. I'll have somebody get you when he wakes up."

"No. I need to be here when he wakes up. It's important. Rhodes' expression shifts subtly, and Phil wonders if he's given too much away. "It's a trust issue," he says and dares Rhodes to question that.

"Hey, man. I understand, but you aren't going to be much use to him if you go to him looking like you do."

Phil knows he's right. "Two hours. Unless he starts waking up earlier." 

"Seriously? The dude's sick, he's on drugs and he has to be exhausted. He won't be away for hours."

"He might surprise you," Phil sighs. He looks longingly at the medical facility. "Any chance of getting a bed in there?" Then he shakes his head. "Never mind. I'm being selfish." 

"Agent Coulson, you look like a man who could use some IV hydration. I think I can get the medics to agree."

"Thank you." It sounds pathetically heartfelt, but Phil is beyond pride. He tells the medics he flew in with that he's feeling dizzy and disoriented, which isn't that far from the truth. He finds himself on a gurney next to Clint, hooked up to an IV. Cleaned up, Barton looks worse than he did beneath the grit and grime. So pale; bloodless lips, purple shadows under his eyes, cuts and scrapes now visible. He looks hurt and vulnerable. He's also deeply asleep, despite the furrows on his brow and the movement of his fingers on the covers. 

Phil is overcome by what he can only call tenderness, and what might be love. He settles down against the standard military issue pillows that feel like down to his weary head. It takes about five seconds for him to fall off the cliff of sleep.

^*^*^*^*^*^*^  
Clint wakes up to the sound of a fighter jet taking off overhead. He gasps, sits up, his heart thudding in his chest. He's disoriented; his drug-mired mind seeking a point of reference between his past and present. He knows the sound, he knows the smell of a base hospital, the familiarity of being injured and in pain. This isn't the pain he remembers -- the damaged muscles and torn flesh of being tortured. This is the generalized ache of being injured with a sharper focal point, in this case, his right thigh. His skin is sun and wind burned. His throat hurts. He turns his head, and the confusion snaps into focus. 

"Coulson?" He's curled up on the bed next to Clint's, wearing desert BDUs, but with an IV in his arm. It's making that annoying beeping to alert the staff to an empty bag. He hates that damn sound. "Coulson!"

Phil's eyes snap open. "What?" Bleary-eyed and sleep-mussed, he sit up and scrubs a hand over his face. "You're better," he says. 

"Better than what?" Clint falls back on his pillows. "I feel like crap. Burnt crap. Turn off that freakin' alarm before I get a migraine."

Coulson smiles, unexpectedly soft. "Sure." He silences it with a touch and a few minutes later a nurse comes over. She takes his pulse, his temperature and efficiently pulls the IV and bandages his arm. She turns to Clint.

"You're doing better," she says." 

"That's what he says." 

She takes his temperature. "Almost normal." She replaces his IV. "You still need antibiotics. Are you thirsty?"

"My mouth feels like the weather outside, so yeah. Water would be great."

Phil stands up, stretches. He sits next to Clint on the bed and holds a plastic cup and straw to his lips. "How much do you remember?"

"I remember shooting the incendiary arrows into fuel dumps. I remember thinking that it wasn't enough to get me into the cave to get Stark. Then ..." he stops, looks at Phil, stricken. "Stark is dead?"

"Stark is very much alive," The curtain is pushed aside by a thin, dark-haired man with his left arm in a sling and bruises on his face. Even in hospital pajamas, he looks rich. "Tony Stark. Thank you for the distraction."

Clint shakes his head, confused. "Did you see it? The iron man?" He sees a flash of something in Stark's eyes before he's laughing. 

"Man, you really are on the good drugs." 

"I saw something," Clint insists.

"Everybody knows what they _think_ they saw, but what do they call it --the fog of war?" He shrugs elegantly. "I just came to thank you." He holds out his hand. "Come see me sometime. Your bow and arrow are pre-historic, but ... um, interesting." He looks at Phil. "Do I know you? Are you somebody I should know?"

Phil just gives him a cool look. "Not yet, Mr. Stark." 

Stark's phone rings. "Yes? Visiting a sick friend." He puts the phone away as the nurse brings in a wheelchair. 

"Mr. Stark. You can't wander off like this. Your heart --"

"My heart is great. Better than yours. It will be ticking away one hundred years from now." He winks, _winks_ at Clint. "See you around, Legolas." He lowers himself to the chair. "My chariot awaits." The nurse turns the chair and Stark is whisked out of sight. 

"Iron man?" Phil says. 

"Legolas?" 

"Elven archer, Lord of the Rings."

"You are such a geek," Clint crows, then gasps as his abused muscles object to the movement. It takes a minute for the pain to subside. "Gotta remember not to do that again for a while," Clint whispers. 

Phil waits until Clint recovers. He holds out the cup again. "Drink." Clint obeys and then Phil slowly lowers him down to the pillows. He allows himself the luxury of touching Clint's forehead gently. "You said something when I found you ... about an iron man."

"Yeah. Like Stark says. It was an illusion."

"Maybe." He continues stroking Clint's hair."We'll talk later."

"'Kay." He's on the verge of sleep when his eyes open wide. "You saved me."

Phil smiles. "I protect my assets. Go to sleep, Barton."

It feels good to be touched. Phil's hand is cool and Clint wants to burrow into his palm and feel the coolness soothing his fever away. He sighs. "Thanks." 

When he wakes again, the cubicle is nearly dark and Coulson's bed is empty. For some reason, that makes Clint's chest hurt. He rings for the nurse. An unfamiliar one come in, does the same things as the old one, but she takes the IV out and bandages his arm. "You have a flight to Ramstein in an hour."

"Um, where is Agent Coulson?"

She digs in her pocket and hands him an envelope. "He left this for you. I'll get an orderly to help you get ready." He opens the envelope and takes out the note. _Fury having kittens. Have to get back to NYC. No, I don't know why. Listen to the docs. I haven't forgotten."_

Forgotten? Clint tries to figure that one out and then remembers. _Oh. Oh..._ he thinks. His cheeks warm. At least he hopes that's what Coulson means, because he hasn't forgotten, either. The orderly comes in and takes out Clint's catheter, then helps him clean up. He doesn't comment on Clint's scars, so Clint figures he's seen plenty of them in his time at Bagram. When Clint is dressed, he's wheeled out to a transport and settled in with pain pills and an antibiotic. The pain pills make him woozy and the antibiotic makes him nauseous, so he drifts off to sleep. The last thing he remembers of the flight is a nurse covering him with a blanket, tucking it close and patting his shoulder before she moved on to the next soldier.

When he wakes up, he's in a bed, in a hospital room. Ramstein, he recalls. Okay. He's been here before. He fumbles for the call button. He needs help getting to the bathroom. He wants to piss, get cleaned up and have some food now that his stomach has settled down. An nurse comes in, does the same old routine and asks him what she can do to make him more comfortable. He tells her. There's no use in being shy around a woman whose been helping soldiers with more intimate things than his needs. 

"I think we can do that," she says, but she calls an orderly to help him. Showered and shaved, with a clean bandage on his leg and a pair of crutches which scare him to death, he maneuvers his protesting body to the armchair by the window. There is a tray of food on it. Clint lifts the lid and nearly passes out. Filet, some kind of twice-baked potato piped into fancy swirls, fresh steamed broccoli ... and a ramekin of bread pudding with a vanilla sauce. There is a note, too. 

_I thought you'd like some real food. T.Stark._

Clint doesn't understand, but he's not about to look a gift horse in the mouth. The filet is rare, the potato is crisp on the outside and creamy on the inside, the dessert is flavored with nutmeg and cinnamon; it's rich, smooth, perfect. Clint can't remember ever having a meal like this. His iron-starved blood-cells are doing a happy dance in his veins. 

He sits in the warmth of the afternoon sun, feeling like a lazy, well-fed cat. Despite his good intentions, he drifts off. He wakes up when somebody taps his cheek gently. He sits up with a gasp, and remember why that's a bad idea. "Ouch! Fuck, that hurts."

"Sorry." Tony Stark is looking down at him. "You were having a nightmare."

Clint rubs his eyes. "Not so unusual," he sighs. "Thanks for the dinner. It was great."

Stark shrugs. "It was the least I could do. Mind if I sit for a while?"

"No." Clint waits and watches Stark. His arm is still in a sling. "Dislocated shoulder?" he asks.

"Hurts like a sonofabitch," Stark gives him a rueful look. "Listen, I need to ask a favor of you."

Clint can't imagine what he can possibly to for a man like Stark. "What is it?" He's wary of billionaires with secrets. 

Stark takes a breath. "You weren't imagining what you saw at the cave."

"The iron man?" 

"Umm, yes. That's kind of catchy. Iron Man."

"That was you?"

"Yes."

"How?"

Stark lifts his black t-shirt. There is a glowing _thing_ in his chest. "This."

"What is it?"

"A state of the art electromagnet keeping the shrapnel in my chest from shredding my heart." 

"Well, that's pretty fucked up."

Stark smiles, suddenly charming. "I need this to be a secret for a while."

"You powered the Iron Man armor with that?"

"Yes." 

Clint measures Stark with his eyes. "Cool. I mean ... yeah, I can keep a secret, but that doesn't mean that Coulson won't figure it out. Not much gets past him."

"Who does he work for?"

"That's my secret."

"Oh, you're one of _those_. Black ops, secret organizations, spies ..."

"He's James Bond."

Stark laughs. "Listen, I was serious about your choice of weapons. Give me some time and I'll make you a bow that belongs in the next century."

"Is that a bribe?"

Stark looks vaguely insulted. "No. I consider it a challenge. I'm not easily intrigued."

Before Clint can apologize, the nurse knocks on the door. "Mr. Stark, your flight leaves in an hour."

Stark holds out his hand. "Good-bye, Mr. Barton. Keep that promise in mind."

Clint shakes Stark's hand, not sure if he means the promise to keep silent about the Iron Man suit, or the offer of the bow. He doesn't say anything, just nods. He doesn't know about keeping a secret from Coulson, but knowing Phil, he already knows everything Clint could tell him. 

^*^*^*^*^*^*^

A week later, Clint is released from the hospital. There is a first-class plane ticket on his breakfast tray. He's grateful and distrustful at the same time, wondering what Stark wants from him, but he's not stupid. If the choice is between a hard seat and MREs in a military transport or a leather recliner and gourmet meals on a commercial flight, it's kind of a no-brainer. He's still limping, but no longer on crutches, and despite the luxury, by the time the plane lands, he's ready to bolt down the jetway just to feel New York ground under his feet. 

He makes his way to the baggage claim, picks up his rucksack, goes through customs without a hitch and turns to find a very welcome and familiar face in the crowd. He and Phil look at each other for about five seconds before they're in each other's arms. Clint pulls Phil into a small space between a counter and an ATM and kisses him thoroughly. "Missed you," he whispers and nips at Coulson's earlobe.

"I'd never know," Coulson says drily, but his lips are close to Clint's throat, his breath warm on his skin. "Let's get out of here."

"Sounds like a plan." 

"Come to my place?" Phil asks. He looks like he thinks Clint might actually refuse.

"Got beer?"

"I might have a six pack or three." He slides his arm around Clint's waist. "You're limping," he says, concern softening his voice.

"The docs say I'll need two weeks of therapy before they sign off, but I'm cleared for the range."

"Fortunately, we're in a quiet spell."

"What did Fury want?" Clint is curious.

Phil shakes his head. "Later. My meter is about to expire in short-term parking."

As they drive to Phil's place, Clint wonders when he started thinking of it as a refuge, a haven where the ghosts of his past had no power over him. It feels right to be sitting in the passenger seat, making small talk, watching the play of lights across Phil's face. New York traffic being what it is, he has plenty of time to look, to think, to work out the puzzle of what happens now. It's not like he can forget that he and Phil slept together -- very actively slept together -- and it had been great. He doesn't know where to go from here, however. It's like trying to make a shot from a high-wire that breaks in two.

Phil won't get him a beer until he's settled on the couch with his leg propped up on the coffee table with cushions tucked beneath his knee. The beer is a cold IPA that is clean and bitter, perfect. He sighs happily. "Now, I feel like I'm home."

Phil joins him, sitting in his customary armchair, his feet up on an ottoman. His collar is open, his tie unknotted. If Clint weren't so jet-lagged and worn out, he'd prowl over there, pull Coulson close and bury his lips in Phil's throat. He's also smart enough to know that isn't going to happen. He finishes his beer. "I'm going to shower." 

"You know where everything is. Do you need to waterproof your dressing?"

Clint shakes his head. "No, just wrap it again to protect it when I'm done. It's fine," he reassures Phil. "Really, I'm not bullshitting you."

"I believe you." Phil smile is tired, tender. His eyes are kind. "Go." Clint feels the weight of his watching as he makes his way down the hall to the bathroom.

^*^*^*^*^*^*^

Phil continues working on his reports while listening to the sound of the shower running. He isn't thinking of Clint, warm and wet, tasting of water and skin. He isn't thinking of it, not with Clint exhausted and hurting. Not tonight. Phil hears the water cut off and sees the light in the hall brighten and then fade as the guest room door closes.

Phil powers down his tablet, then turns off the lights. He opens the guest room door. Clint is curled up on the bed, covers pulled to his chin, making himself as small as possible. Phil wonders why Clint tends to huddle. He wonders why Clint isn't sharing his bed. 

He supposes that is a story for the morning sun, not the dark night. He showers, gets into bed. As usual sleep doesn't come when he wants it to, so he gives up, powers up his table. This time, it's not work. He chooses a book to read, _Team of Rivals_. He feels like there is a lesson there to be learned on handling difficult, brilliant and annoying people. It doesn't escape him that he's just described Tony Stark. 

There is a soft knock on his door, and Clint looks in. "Can't sleep," he says, like it's a weakness. 

"You were earlier."

"Before I dreamed about caves," Clint's smile is rueful. "What are you reading?" Clint seems to be waiting for permission to crawl into Phil's bed. 

Phil moves over and sets up the pillows. Clint leans against him and looks at the tablet. 

"Cool. Lincoln. He was kind of a country boy like me," Clint's head dips to Coulson's shoulder so he can see the screen better. Phil wraps his arm around him. Somehow, Barton works his way under the covers. His body eventually slumps down in sleepy relaxation. Phil settles the pillow beneath his head. He doesn't think he'll sleep, but with Clint warm and breathing softly next to him, he drifts off. It's the best rest he's had in weeks. 

^*^*^*^*^*^*^  
Two weeks later, Clint is standing at the bar in a swanky hotel in Los Angeles. He's wearing a suit and watching Coulson chat up Stark's assistant, a stunning strawberry blonde in a gown with a back cut so low that it's barely decent. Her back is nothing to be ashamed of as every man in the room will attest. 

Stark seems to have avoided the social scene. Instead, Obadiah Stane is holding court; greeting people, looking dangerous and expansive. Clint thinks Stark should be too smart to put any trust in him, but then, Clint had trusted Barney and Trick Shot, and look what happened to him. Stane has the same ruthless twist to his mouth.

It's hard to feel sympathy for Stark, but Clint can feel the hair on the back of his neck rise as Stane slowly turns and runs cold eyes over Clint, then dismisses him as being nobody important. He seems to think even less of Coulson. He's giving Coulson a pitying look, as if he's playing out of his league. Clint has no doubt that's exactly what Phil intended. 

There is a commotion at the door and Stark strides in, looking sleek and edgy. He sees Clint and his eyes widen before they flick to Coulson and Ms. Potts. He exchanges a few words with Phil, bland and unimpressed, then holds out his hand to Pepper. 

Clint saunters over to Phil. "Well, that wasn't productive."

"You think so? Stark knows S.H.I.E.L.D. is watching him. He knows you and I are in his corner if push comes to shove and knowing Stane, it will."

Clint tugs at his tie. "Can we go now?"

"I think so." Coulson takes out his phone and sends a brief text to Fury. A moment later, there is a reply. Phil sighs. "How do you feel about New Mexico?"

"Hot, dry. Too much like A-stan." He can't hide his reluctance from Phil. He won't even try because Phil cuts through his wisecracks and grins like a laser through butter. He owes Coulson for more than his job. "Why?" he asks. 

"We need to see a General Ross about a science experiment gone very, very wrong."

"Great. My favorite thing." His eyes seek out Stark, dancing with Pepper Potts. "So, Stark's off the S.H.I.E.L.D. hook?"

"For a few hours." Phil's hand rests unobtrusively on the small of Clint's back; warm, strong, steady. "I can do this alone," he says.

"Is it going to be dangerous?"

"Possibly. You know how things go."

Unfortunately, Clint knows too well. "I'm going," he says. He doesn't move away from Coulson's touch, but leans into it. "Somebody has to watch your back."

Phil looks relieved. "Thank you."

Clint shrugs. "I've never lived the old saying, "Once burned, twice shy. Probably stupid of me, but there it is."

"I'll try not to fan any flames."

Clint leans close. "Oh, you can try any time, any where. Just because I get burned, doesn't mean I'm gonna die." 

"Keep it that way." His voice is fierce and there is a look in Coulson's eyes that makes Clint shiver as Phil tugs him closer. "It's a long drive to Albuquerque." 

Clint thinks if he plays it right, there might be a motel on the way. They deserve some kind of slack for the last two weeks. He looks at Stark, who raises a glass and has the nerve to wink at them. Clint scowls at him and Stark mimes shooting a bow and arrow followed by the universal _Call me_ sign. Right. 

Coulson's expression is bland. He gives Stark a slight nod and guides Clint out the door to their waiting car.

**The End**


End file.
